The Innocence of Sacrificial Spells
by beesandjam13
Summary: John and Sherlock find many challenging adventures throughout the mysterious Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but little housemate Jim was never one of them. Next-generation. John/Sherlock in later chapters.
1. First Year, Part One

**A/N: **Hi guys! This lovely fic was inspired by a text post written by sherlocklexa on tumblr. She's been a blessing with this journey and she's seen me at my worst. A big thanks goes out to her! My personal tumblr is beesandjam, so any questions, corrections, or concerns can be sent there along with my pm on here. I've had a wonderful time writing this so far and I cannot wait to see what you all think of it! A few notes first, though.

John and Sherlock are the same age for the sake of fiction. And so are Greg, Albus, Mike, and all the other typical characters.

Like I just mentioned, this is a next-generation fic. (And if you haven't already noticed, A BBC Sherlock/Harry Potter crossover)

The rating may go up with plans in future chapters, but there will not be any harsh smut.

That's all for now! Thank you for reading, darlings! ^-^

* * *

Three words would continue to change John Watson's life over the course of his years at Hogwarts. Spinning and tossing, his fate would twirl out of control all because of one person and variations of words grouped in threes spoken from his lips. Nonetheless being different each time, three was the number. Three was lucky. Three was his.

•••

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," declared the young boy somewhat quietly as John slid into the seat opposing him, surprised that no other first year had followed his lead into this nearly-empty compartment on a nearly-full train.

John had introduced himself a moment earlier- he'd even stuck out his hand just as he'd seen his father do many times at the office –but the darker haired boy had waved off the greeting, his stare slowly drifting out the window adjacent to him while John moved his hand from its awkward spot in the air to the back of his neck.

Sherlock's legs strained out next to John now, their length not fully detailing the height of the eleven-year-old and how he would tower over the older blond. His hair was a dark, chocolaty brown and it curled at unplanned and chaotic perplexities of his face. His eyes beamed life through an intricate color of the sea (although they seemed to alter slightly each time John glanced back) and his skin was the color of such snow on the first of the year.

John, with his sandy hair and sandy skin, noticed that something perplexing made up Sherlock, but he couldn't quite pick it out. John nonetheless made a point of smiling at him and examined Sherlock pleasantly with an attempted casual chat.

"What house do you think you'll get into?"

A few seconds passed as Sherlock continued to gaze out the window contently at the bounteous mountains before he looked at John. Hadar, John's newly purchased Eurasian Eagle owl, screeched a complaint from his cage as if to say: "Speak up or I'll gag the remnants of my lunch onto your lap." But the owl (even if he couldn't) didn't need to talk because Sherlock soon did. "Seeing as I'm a heir of the founder- Slytherin. You'll clearly be Gryffindor. Now shut up; I'm thinking."

John looked confused and his eyebrows masked into a line. What would be so demanding that the younger boy needed silence for? Without heeding Sherlock's request, John asked another question with eyes positively narrowed onto the brunet's frame. "What are you thinking about?"

"How to steal a cat," Sherlock muttered, sneering with his upper lip curled marginally.

John was shocked. He was expecting a more normal answer comparable to curiosities about the dormitories or difficulties of classes, but no. Sherlock Holmes was plotting out a devious way to steal a bloody cat. John, a displeasing yet intrigued look on his twelve-year-old face, responded in disbelief. "Pardon?"

"A bloody one at that. Just like the owner," was all the younger boy retorted.

The blond's head shook in thorough skepticism and mistrust (although John did have to admit that if this kid's scheme was skillfully realistic enough he would certainly ask to join him) whilst he restated the previous statement as a question. "You're going to steal a cat?"

Sherlock shook his head at the idiot in front of him while keeping his observation secure on the scenery outside the Express. "That is what I've just said," he countered, "but yes, a cat. I need it for experiments and potions, but seeing as I'll be sorted into the same house as he is currently in it's riskier to keep the blasted thing hidden."

"You said you know about the house I'll get into. You couldn't possibly be correct," John acknowledged. The earlier conversation was poking curious holes into his mind ceaselessly.

"Simple. You have nerve… talking to me even after I demanded that you'd shut up. Chivalry is from your clothes. Your parents are lacking money but you've made well with what you have even if your older brother passed down the jumper you're currently wearing. You take pride in yourself- I can tell from the attempted handshake and determined eye contact, however you are not boastful of it. Easy, Gryffindor."

"How did you know about my sibling?" John muttered before processing the remaining information in his head.

The brunet smiled for the first time since having met the other boy, a side of his lips being tugged into a slim smirk. "I'm certain you haven't been drinking recently," Sherlock jeered nonchalantly all while his fingers formed a steeple under his chin.

John shot him a look of displeasure and confusion all muddled into one. "Only my mother was at the station, so you couldn't have seen him. How do you know about the alcohol?" he inquired, his head tilting to the side slightly.

"Of course he wasn't there, that'd be too obvious," the opposing boy commented, waving his hand in the air to amount the stupidity in John's recent statement, "your jumper reeks horridly of liquor…if you were only looking for it. He must have given it to you recently- you probably picked your favorite of the hand-me-downs to wear today for a good impression. Clearly Gryffindor." Sherlock sighed, eyes trained on John's as he read the doubt on his face. "I'll write your first paper if I'm wrong of any facts for reassurance of your disbelief."

The blond's eyes widened as his mind fumbled loosely over all the information Sherlock had just presented about him. All of it was perfect- except for one thing- but how? Did he know some sort of knowledge spell? Did John have a sign on his forehead that gave off information? Instead of contemplating it any longer, he simply asked.

"I notice things other people neglect; I don't know them. All apparent to say the least," Sherlock snapped. He was reasonably satisfied with himself, his hands moved from their familiar position under his chin to cross over his chest while he awaited a snotty comment from the blond.

But it didn't come. All John said was "Brilliant".

And that surprised Sherlock, although nothing ever surprised him. In Sherlock's head John was no longer labeled ordinary or boring or tedious or dull or stupid or insufferable; John was different. Not one being, especially not from Sherlock's family (for they shared the same ability on different degrees, but nowhere close to his level), had ever complimented him on this talent. Normally people respond with ill-mannered comments such as Sherlock's favorite: "Piss off". John was the first to reply to the deductions positively and it put him above all others. Automatically. Sherlock didn't even have to think about the matter.

He squinted at the blond. "Really?" the brunet confirmed, a second grin spreading across his eleven-year-old face. The brief instance allowed John to glimpse Sherlock for his authentic age but soon his persona was back up and all John saw was a devious smirk and absorbing eyes.

"Definitely," beamed back the blond, "but I hope you do enjoy writing papers because I have an older sister, not a brother."

•••

The students seated at the long and narrow tables watched Sherlock with wide eyes when he'd taken his seat on the stool as McGonagall declared his name. Mycroft Holmes talked little about his younger brother, for he disliked him and the large, loud mouth he possessed. Some of the students didn't actually know Slytherin prefect Mycroft had siblings until the young boy with shambolic hair and wild eyes was settled on the seat looking rather pissed off at the world. But, because McGonagall had announced him to be a Holmes, they couldn't disagree.

Sherlock took a long time on the worn stool, his mind bickering with this second voice inside his head. The hat searched his brain intently, finding extensive knowledge and cunning ambition. He could be easily put into two houses: Slytherin and Ravenclaw. With his balance between to intelligence and cleverness, Sherlock Holmes quickly became a Hatstall- and a bloody long one at that.

The two bickered within his mind relentlessly (But the Ravenclaws know absolutely nothing! – And yet, you could do well there.) and soon the Hat had become fed up with whose head he was sitting on and depended on blood. "Slytherin!" he yelled, finally finishing with the flamboyant first year. The students cloaked in green stood and cheered, except for one, as he had known what was to come.

John Watson had been sorted much easily. He fluently fit into both Hufflepuff and Gryffindor; and so, because his bravery and courage outweighed his patience, John Watson became a very incredibly loyal Gryffindor by declaration of a hat. This time red-cloaked students cheered and an intelligent Slytherin smirked knowingly from across the Great Hall.

Over the course of his first meal the new Gryffindor made curious glances at Sherlock nosily. The Slytherin had noticed these occurrences quite inevitably, but dismissed them as his piercing blue-grey eyes trained onto his plate while he pushed his roasted chicken about the dish. John had met a few people at his own seating whom he seemed quite fond of; a decent-sized kid with a light humor by the name of Greg, a plump teen whose glasses didn't quite fit his face deemed as Mike, and a slightly quiet boy who shared a first name with previous headmaster Albus Dumbledore. John didn't find these classmates as tenuously captivating as Sherlock, but for being his housemates they would do.

He smiled at his new friends, holding up his cup of pumpkin juice as some sort of welcome to his coming years at Hogwarts. And when he caught Sherlock's eye seconds later, he nodded in sentiment even if the other boy only gave him a questioning look.

•••

Although it had only been two days, John Watson forgot about his Slytherin friend.

On Monday morning Sherlock had not been seated opposing him at the green table. John had also not seen him on the way to any classes or in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Flying, or Astronomy on Tuesday.

The complete bliss of his first two days at Hogwarts had swept him off his feet and carried him away. He became lost within corridors, sat in complete astonishment during a few classes, and even made witty jokes with his new Gryffindor friends. Because he had been a Muggle for his entire life up to this, Hogwarts was a bundle of utter possibilities that John could not wait to take ahold of…

…but then he bumped into a certain Slytherin on his way to Charms.

"Sorry," mumbled the blond automatically before turning on his heel. Dark hair, green robes, a nasty scowl plastered onto a pale face- how could he have forgotten? "Sherlock!" he called out to the retreating figure, "wait up!"

The brunet's eyes narrowed as he continued sauntering towards History of Magic. By seeing the means of the situation present, Sherlock was convinced his Gryffindor would continue to follow him until he spoke, so irritably he muttered, "What is it?"

John raked a hand through his hair, fixing his eyes on Sherlock's in the process. After a deep breath and a calculation that he had about two minutes to make it across the castle to Charms, he proceeded to ask the taller boy about the cat and if he had already stolen it or not. Even if the John was virtually infatuated with his new school and the grounds, Sherlock continued to intrigue him with a deeper necessity. Stealing a cat was quite captivating nonetheless- obliviously John had to assist Sherlock on this. Clearly. Who would pass up the chance?

John was rather eager so Sherlock answered his unspoken question in the act of ignoring the original one. "Meet me at the entrance of Great Hall once you've had dinner."

And without awaiting a response from John, Sherlock headed off to History of Magic, his cloak fluttering majestically behind him as he fled.

•••

Charms had ended fairly well. John had managed to do decently on their first quiz and even scribbled notes onto enchanted parchment, sending them over to Greg (but only when the professor wasn't looking, of course). To say the least, John was pleased with himself.

His new friends, on the opposing matter, did not do as well with their quizzes as did the blond. Greg had a decent but not so satisfying 'Acceptable', Mike was paired with a distasteful 'Poor', and Albus- whom the professor had suspected to do well in class- was left a failing 'Troll'.

With displeased looks on their faces (except for John's), the four boys trudged to the library to study up a bit before lunch, all a bit too irked to enjoy the facilities to their extent.

•••

During his dinner John scanned the Slytherin table for his friend multiple times over (it got to a point where Greg began questioning him about his actions), but his attempts proved futile- Sherlock wasn't there no matter how often he checked. Evidently, the Gryffindor was anxious to see his green-robed friend awaiting him in front of the large doors afterwards. With a pleasant grin, John rushed to Sherlock and they began their tedious journey to the dungeons.

"I assume, seeing that he'll have Prefect duties at this time," Sherlock began as they waited patiently for their staircase to stop moving, "my brother will be in no alarming distance of the common room for awhile. This allows us to easily slip in as long as no other Slytherin sees us flustering about his belongings. Simple."

John squinted. "Why do you want to do this anyways? And who is your brother?"

Although it had interested him before on the train ride to the school, it had never dawned on John why such a first year would want to steal an animal- let alone from his said brother. At this certain point John became alarmed. What if he wanted to use the deadly spells on it? Would he harm it in anyway possible? What if he-

"My brother is Mycroft Holmes, Slytherin prefect and also a pompous prick. He's an absurd being and his cat will have good use if I were to experiment on her- she is rather...outsized. Just like him, but in a different matter entirely."

The two had then reached a blank, cobblestone wall in which ceased their conversation. Once Sherlock had quite loudly mumbled a specific name of a potion (John grasped that Sherlock was practically welcoming him to visit the common room another time), the boys stepped inside.

The Gryffindor followed his taller companion in slower and swift stride, his eyes glazing over the green-tinted room with awe. Realizing it was located under the Black Lake, the common room was relatively dark when forgetting to mention the scattered candles or few fireplaces intelligently located about the area. With it's grand but cold impression the Gryffindor could have easily been comfortable and frightened at the same time. A insufficient amount of people were scattered around the room and the few who actually looked up at them only tossed a sneer in the Gryffindor's direction before casually returning to their droning conversing without second thought.

Both Sherlock and John were walking unconcernedly towards the dorms when John spoke next. "Why don't they care that I'm in here? I'm a Gryffindor for Merlin's sake!"

The Slytherin noticed how quickly the former Muggle was catching onto warding slang. He must have been with his housemates often enough for him in to grow familiar to it in order to be saying it himself. "I see you've made some friends," the younger boy commented.

"I'm not even going to ask how you knew- probably have a knowledge spell or something."

While witnessing John roll his eyes, a slight smile pulled at the corner of Sherlock's lips as he snickered. "That would be utterly tedious and boring. Are you fond of them?"

John thought back to the past two days. He'd shared some memorable times with them already, but they were missing something. And soon, with a glance upward and a light grin, John knew. No matter how much he enjoyed his friends' company they'd never be Sherlock. "They're nice, yeah. A bit boring compared to you, but they know more about the wizarding world than I do."

While peering downwards with a set raised eyebrows Sherlock said with a breath, "Obviously- they've lived here their whole lives."

John lost his chance to reply when the arrived at Mycroft's room. Luckily for them, once they had promptly pushed open the large door, the dormitory was vacant. Sherlock made a comment about how simple it all was when he rushed to the opposing side of the space to a selected green bed. The Slytherin dropped down to the floor and called the cat by its name. His voice was soft and soothing- almost like a crescendo in a melody (John dabbled a bit with the clarinet back in Muggle school). "Anthea," the human boy practically purred, "come here."

John wasn't expecting what had crawled out from the limited space between the bed and floor. With long, tattered, and matted black fur and fangs when she hissed, Anthea wasn't the sweet cat John was hoping for.

Once she had let a loud gnarl loose from her throat, Anthea attached herself violently to Sherlock's face, pushing him backwards. He struggled some but was soon able to part with her long enough for her to run about the room. Other than her mess, the pair of first years made a tremendous clutter chasing her from under beds, inside sheets, and sometimes from the walls. This was trickier than John had expected.

The Gryffindor resulted in multiple slashes about his arms and the Slytherin a start of a black eye (he'd run into the foot of someone's bed), but they had successfully captured the creature inside Mycroft's blanket. Sherlock, by a flick of his wand, sent the room back to it's normal, tidy, state and headed down the stairs, bundle of fur and sheets in arms and John at his heels.

•••

"Where will you be keeping that?"

"Oh, come on John. Do keep up. I know you're not like the rest of them, so you should have a brain somewhere in that massive head of yours."

Sherlock was rushing through the halls, and bloody hell, it was near curfew. John had no intentions of breaking a rule or losing house points on his first week and the thought of it made him just a bit queasy.

He could already picture a Howler being sent to him from his mother if she were to find out. Embarrassing him as it would in front of his new friends, it would drown his reputation in seconds flat. All in his first week! His new housemates would also be disappointed with his new choice of-

"Clever, oh how clever," Sherlock rambled ahead of him as the cat created screeching noises of resistance.

"What is?"

"The Room of Requirement, also commonly referred to as the 'Come and Go' room. Only when a person has a real need of it shall it appear and seeing that we must have a place to hide a beast, obviously we are searching for it now. But our need isn't really need, now is it? We took the cat and even if I do require her for experiments and the likings, it's not a need- it's a want. We must have something more prominent and demanding for it to appear, hmm?"

John's head twirled. Rooms and beasts and curfew and embarrassment and Slytherins and it was only his third night? Bloody hell, magic could captivate you quickly.

As best as he possibly could with all of his Muggleness in the way, John nodded and racked his brain for ideas; however, it was a senseless act because Sherlock opened his arrogant mouth and began talking, breathing his words out indifferently. "It was said that Dumbledore once had to use the loo and found it filled with chamber pots."

And, without another proceeding thought, the young Slytherin shouted "Accio chalice!" into the musty castle air while concentrating as best he could, successfully conjuring a silver cup filled to the brim with pumpkin juice. "Drink up," he muttered, shoving the glass towards the blond's chest.

John now held the chalice in his hands, his quivering fingers doing the best they could to support the cup. His mother wouldn't be proud, but it was the best (and only, really) option the Gryffindor could think of at the moment; it was seemingly the quickest way to be allowed back to the dormitories by Sherlock. If he were to just do as this git said, he would be seen back upstairs and in bed in the very near future.

John drank the juice rather rapidly once he'd picked out his choice, thus prompting the brunet to use the refilling charm after each occasion of emptiness and forcing the younger student to drink the juice again and again and again. And, soon enough, just as the genius had planned, John needed to use the restroom.

The Gryffindor returned the chalice back to Sherlock as he paced uncomfortably down the chalky halls and then back once more. It was getting to a point where he couldn't hold it much longer; walking wouldn't help, his hands were shaking, and he continuously bit the inside of his lip out of stress. "Sherlock-," he began, but was cut of when a large, round door appeared ahead of him, just as he was about to turn away. John ran in thankfully, praising Merlin as he did so.

The area John had now entered wasn't a loo at first, but he somehow followed a trail that led him to one. As he relieved himself, Sherlock locked Anthea in a cage placed perfectly inside the first room, flopped down onto a large purple couch, and thought of the potions he would be creating in the near future as he waited.

This chamber was rather large and resembled seemingly to the dormitories. Two beds were bordering a wall dyed maroon and a fireplace (with two selected arm chairs) opposed them. Scattered with out-of-place windows, a wall slithered behind the pair of beds as it mapped out the landscape of Hogwarts. It was comforting, the room, with its warm smells of tea and kindle.

"There's a golden sink in there, Sherlock," mumbled John in amazement when he found his way back to this oddly enchanted common room. The Slytherin didn't respond- he was somehow already lost in his thought -so John took the liberty himself to sit down on one of the beds and stare at the ceiling.

With wide eyes John scoped out the room and noticed how easily he could become very at-home in such an environment. Also, if they stayed in here the remaining time of the night, he could miss curfew completely and pop up the next morning, only bringing suspicion to a few people. John made his choice without even realizing it.

"Anthea is such a horrid name and if we are to keep her, she will be called Gladstone. Mycroft never has any logic, does he?" babbled Sherlock from where he was stretched out on the couch, his eleven-year-old lankiness spilling and pooling over one of the arms of the sofa where his feet dangled off.

"True," muttered the Gryffindor in agreement as he sunk into the luxury of the purple mattress he was occupying. Gladstone meowed displeasingly from her cage at this.

And soon but drearily, both slightly injured first years drifted off to sleep in their selected spots of the Room of Requirement without notice- one gaining sleep for the first time since his arrival and the other with a goofy grin smothered about his face as he dreamt.


	2. First Year, Part Two

"Wake up, John." Sherlock's voice was rough and yet somehow soft as he nudged John with his wand. "We have classes." And with this statement Sherlock emphasized the word 'classes' mockingly because they were _most_ _prominently_ _necessary to be present at_ and he sure as Azkaban didn't need to (_Oh, Merlin…_) _miss out _on such things.

John grumbled something inaudible at Sherlock's adolescent actions before turning over in the purple covers. Wait… _purple_ covers? But Gryffindor's colors were red and gold, why would the dorm now be purple? His eyes shot open and he looked around the Room of Requirement, suddenly remembering what had happened the night prior and why Sherlock was the one waking him.

His observation swooped the area of the space just before settling on an empty cage bordering the fireplace. "Where's Anth- Gladstone?" he inquired sleepily, rubbing his eyes as he did so.

"I let her out," said the younger boy whom was now sitting on the edge of John's mattress.

John's jaw dropped. "You…you let her _out_? Why the hell would you do _that_?"

The Gryffindor, in worry and anxiety, darted off the bed and sprinted around the room looking for the said beast as Sherlock made himself comfortable on the purple mattress. His hands clasped behind his head while he said, "Although this is quite the show, there's no need to worry. She won't harm you."

John stopped in his tracks, which was near the armchair when he saw it. There curled up into a furry ball was Gladstone, her black paws tucked up into her chest. "But- but she was a beast!" the older boy stammered in amazement.

"Yes, and now's she's not. The potion was simple- I made it this morning when you were still sleeping. She still has those qualities of which for hunting or when she becomes angered, but unless those specific things happen, she's a normal cat. Thought it would be easier for us to retain her," rambled Sherlock.

Hesitantly and slowly, John made his way to the sleeping creature and when he was close enough he reached his hand out carefully and caressed her back. She purred in her sleep as response to his gesture lovingly.

"How did I not hear you?"

"I can be exceedingly quiet, if you haven't yet noticed."

Outside the Come and Go Room, Hogwarts was glowing. At only eight in the morning, the golden fields shimmered with a translucent glaze and the Black Lake distantly seemed harmless. John looked off at the scenery while petting Gladstone before his eyes trailed the magical room again. Sherlock had stopped the fire while he was sleeping and a cauldron was set atop the desk in the corner of the room, leaving the space to smell of such ingredients, dungeons, and kindle.

"It'd be best if we left for Defense Against the Dark Arts soon," the Slytherin stated, rising from the bed and sauntering his way to the door, "seeing as we only have five minutes to make it across the castle."

•••

The pair made it to their first class with only seconds to spare that Thursday morning. The Room of Requirement had altered its position so when exiting their new hideout they were a few corridors from the classroom. Only Greg raised an eyebrow when they entered (Mike was still eating part of his breakfast and Albus had fallen asleep). Luckily for them, their Professor hadn't arrived yet, which gave them time to slip into their seats beside each other coolly.

"Where were you two _lovebirds_ last night?" called Greg in a singsong voice a few tables over.

Sherlock took the independence of speaking while John shot him a glare and a slight sneer. "I was tutoring him in Astrology and we fell asleep at a table in the library, mind you"

Greg took little to no offense to this. "It was a joke, calm down," he affirmed with a nervous laugh. And this time it was.

Professor Podmore decided to storm in at that moment, ceasing their conversation immediately …and _Merlin,_ he was upset. Albus woke and Mike shoved the last of his pastry into his already-full mouth, however John only grinned to himself, eager to learn more about magic.

Around ten minutes into Podmore going on and on and on about the Curse of Bogies and how Peeves once used this exact curse on Albus's father, Greg sent a fluttering note over to John. It read:

**_How'd he get a bruised eye studying? GL_**

John flipped over the parchment, scribbled out his dishonest response, and sent it back when Podmore wasn't looking.

**_Restricted section. JW_**

A few moments later, he received another from Greg.

**_Holmes has already ventured out there?! Thought he could restrain himself for at least a week… I owe Potter a galleon thanks to him. GL_**

John snickered at this, earning both a look from Podmore and an eye roll from Sherlock. He sighed, pressing the note into a page of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection and flipped to the next page, sinking into his seat dreadfully. But soon he could feel Sherlock's eyes cutting him trough like ice from the spot next to him.

"What?" the Gryffindor whispered through his teeth.

Sherlock's smile only worked on half of his mouth, the other was perfectly still while his wild eyes roamed John's features. "Oh… nothing," he smirked deviously.

John shrugged, returning his gaze on his Professor who was now describing how it felt to go through a Curse of Bogies with a displeasing expression glued to his face.

•••

On his way to Charms that same Thursday morning, John Watson was dragged into an empty classroom unwillingly.

Two sixth years grabbed him by the robes and yanked him to their selected designation. Well, him and his shaking body, to be exact.

They heaved him into a room and locked the doors, leaving him alone with a boy whom John suspected to also be a sixth year.

He racked his brain for the few spells he'd learn in the past three days. It wasn't much, conversely he did know a good handful to use if this Slytherin student opposing him were to try something.

"Mycroft Holmes," the sixth year said, his head tilting to the side as a sly smile crept about his face. His hair was a deep mahogany color, nothing near the cavernous forest color Sherlock owned. His eyes weren't as enthusiastic and were almost uninhabited, but blue nonetheless. His mouth was formed with the thinnest of lips and they seemed to always find a slithering way of contorting themselves with his pronunciation of words. Overall, Mycroft Holmes wasn't close to what Sherlock came off to be.

John wasn't impressed.

He also had a poor taste in cats. And pet names. And bodyguards.

"You know I've got a wand. I could just do a spell or something," the Gryffindor muttered as a futile warning.

Mycroft didn't pay the slightest of attention to this except for a light chuckle and the twist of his mouth. "Yes, the bravery of the Gryffindor. Bravery is by far the kindest word for idiocy. What is your current relation to my brother, Sherlock Holmes?"

"A friend? I don't know, ask him."

"Mhm, but you two were seen exiting the Room of Requirement earlier this morning. Might we be expecting hand-holding later this evening?"

John shot the older boy a scowl, clearly showing his dislike (to say it kindly) of this older Holmes and his snobbish comments.

"What are you trying to get at?"

"Do you plan to continue your association with him?"

The Gryffindor broke eye contact, taking a decent moment to look down at his hand-me-down shoes intently as he thought. Would he? The previous night stealing Mycroft's cat _was_ rather thrilling. "Is this really your business?" he asked, raising his eyes from the ground and tacking them unto Mycroft's.

"I worry about him. Constantly."

"If you're so worried about him, why don't you just talk to him yourself?" John's _touché_ practically sliced through Mycroft's cold expression effortlessly, but only for the slightest of moments because soon the Slytherin had flung his comeback in John's direction.

"He doesn't wish to come into contact with me whatsoever. I was hoping you'd give me updates on his _ways_ when necessary."

John cocked an eyebrow. "Will I be allowed to leave if I agree?"

Mycroft nodded once. There was nothing left to say.

"Yes."

•••

Sherlock had sent John a parchment via Hadar (How Sherlock got ahold of him, John didn't know) after their shared flying class. It read:

**_John._**

**_I have your Astrology paper written. Meet near the Fat Lady before eleven-thirty tonight._**

**_SH_**

John tugged on his jumper and pocketed his wand before heading down the stairs and into the common room. The deceiving brunet with wild eyes and startling height for his age was waiting promptly where he'd promised when John slid out from behind the painting at 11:33.

"Here," said the Slytherin, handing over a scrolled parchment. He was about to turn on his heal when John rest a hand on his shoulder.

"You didn't have to," John stated.

Sherlock chuckled. "Oh, but I promised."

And with that, the Slytherin made his way back down to the dungeons, fully awaiting the sight of John turning in the bloody awfull paper just minutes later.

Little did he know, John would receive a "Troll" on the said paper because Sherlock had written about the illogicality and stupidity of space itself. How likely.

•••

Sherlock was bunched up on the couch in the Come and Go Room, or as he was beginning to call it, the Flat (because after all, that's what it looked like). His legs were positioned oddly- one was stretched out; the other was tucked up against his chest with his arm strung around it. The air smelled like kindle and dust and the sun was just about to set behind the wall of windows. Gladstone curled up at the edge of the sofa, her tiny body coiled behind her tail. With every sight of her un-beastly form, Sherlock felt minor satisfaction flood through him. With only one night to experiment, it was a miracle he'd removed those fangs and claws.

On Friday night he'd found a way to removed the black eye he'd given himself (Murtlap was fantastic for these things) after an hour at the cauldron, Gladstone meowing from the floor near him. Apparently he'd forgotten to feed her and she made that abundantly clear so he placed some of the dead rat he had for potions in a bowl, put it on the ground, and continued with his useful hobby.

John wasn't there that night- he was probably screwing around with those stupid and foolish and idiotic friends of his and how could someone that was so smart want to be with his _housemates_? Oh yes, he remembered. John was normal; or a bit, to say the least.

But John was different. He hadn't made a harsh comment at Sherlock's "gift", he hadn't told him to 'piss off', hadn't ignored him the first chance he could, no, John came back _and helped steal a cat_. Oh, how the pair was so innocently foolish.

Sherlock couldn't fathom why he'd taken a liking to John. With only a few realistic (and _boring_) questions, John had agreeably gone along with him, sucked down all that juice, and lied to his "friends" about what they'd been doing. Hell, Sherlock had even overheard his conversation with Mycroft- the Gryffindor didn't even mentioned the cat! How could someone be so… so caring? Merlin, he hated the word. Couldn't stand it.

Sherlock sighed, resting his chin on his knee that was oddly propped up, his eyes closing and body falling limp. When was the last time he'd slept? He dozed off in History of Magic on Thursday and experimented on Friday night… Now it was Saturday and his eyes were shut tight and his breaths were evening. And soon, after his reluctant attempts at staying awake, he fell asleep for the second time on that sodding couch. Apparently it was comfortable.

•••

John picked through his meal on Monday afternoon when Sherlock slid onto the bench next to him, cloak fluttering behind in ripples of fabric as he moved. Watson groaned, piercing a piece of fried sausage.

"What?" Sherlock asked curiously, raising an eyebrow and flattening a portion of parchment onto the table.

"I have Herbology later."

Sherlock dismissed this and waited for John to inquisitively glance over at the paper that he'd placed down, but it didn't come. The Gryffindor stared down at his plate,

poking and prodding at the meat in front of him. Sherlock soon gave up his ways, concluding that John wouldn't give up his.

He spoke monotonously. "And how is Herbology so bad?"

Sherlock already knew John's reply before he said it (dark circles under his eyes, a loss of appetite, and slightly quivering fingertips). "We have a quiz… and I forgot to study," the older boy said in a grumble, balancing his head on his fist.

The Slytherin contorted his body as so he was facing his Gryffindor friend and smiled widely. It was almost malicious, but John didn't take the care to look up and see it.

"It's only Herbology. Longbottom's no good anyways, you'll do fine," the Slytherin retorted, silvery-blue eyes sparkling with excitement, "I have something to cheer you up."

"Sherlock, I'm not up for-"

The brunet cut him off. "We're going into the forbidden forest. Tonight."

John wasn't allowed time to protest because Sherlock was already explaining the situation for him and jabbing a finger at the list of elements on the parchment. "I need ingredients for a potion and you are going to help me. It's all really simple, John."

And with a flick of a wand to scroll up his paper and a fluttering of robes, Sherlock Holmes vanished from the Great Hall.

•••

Sherlock was almost a psychic because, just as he'd predicted, John had done exceeding well on his herbology exam. Lucky for him, John had a free period before his class and was able to study exceedingly. Professor Longbottom was nice about John's nerves anyway- he had said it was all normal for things like this to stir up.

John's legs were becoming rather stiff in his chair so he propped them up on the opposing seat. Only he, Albus, Greg, and Mike (from what they could see) were in the library, so it was intensively quiet. Well, until Mike burped and the boys laughed. Greg grinned while shaking his head, Albus's chortles could be heard in the dungeons, and John smiled like a fool. As quick as it began, the silence was erased almost as if it had never existed in the first place.

Soon their assorted books were shoved aside, Albus was searching the library for a chessboard, and Greg was making jokes about a Professor all while John continued to smile like a drunken bloke.

The young Potter eventually found one at a discarded table. He brought it to his friends in a half jog-half walking manner and placed it down with a pant. "Do the Muggles know how to play?" He asked, hands on his hips in direction to Greg who shrugged.

John's eyebrows furrowed. Chess? Of course he knew how to play. Almost everyone back at his Muggle school knew how to… so why was Albus asking if he could? Chess was a classic! And it was incredibly-

"Who doesn't?" exclaimed Mike in partial whisper, but Albus only smirked with his head cocked to the side.

"Not Muggle chess," he snickered, "_wizard _chess."

"Oh."

John leaned back in his chair when he realized. Albus and Greg had probably been playing it their whole lives, of course he and Mike didn't know. "So, how do you play?" said John, arms crossed over his. If he was as good as he was with Muggle chess with was Wizard, the three other boys would lose horridly.

Greg and Mike took turns explaining the process. It had the same aspects, they described, just that pieces broke and they had to use the Reparo spell to fix it all.

And almost immediately after they finished, Albus and John dived into a match; Mike cheering on the blond, Greg cheering on the brunet.

It was challenging, for Albus was just as good as Watson was, but John had a few tricks up his sleeve that he'd learnt from Harriet over the years. In the end, he resulted with the win. Except Albus secretly allowed him. Beginners luck, they would say.

•••

Because Sherlock never detailed as to where he would meet John (or when, frankly), the Gryffindor was left clueless as he was sprawled out on his bed. Believing that if he really needed to Sherlock could simply send Gladstone or Hadar with a letter, John skimmed through his Defence Against the Dark Arts book that Monday evening peacefully. Well, before Greg rushed up the stairs and yelled for John to come down.

When they finally reached the common room John frowned marginally with hands shoved deep in his pockets at what stood opposite of him. A few of his Gryffindor housemates stood around and stared shockingly at this new event.

"Merlin's beard, how did you get in here?" John inquired, a raised eyebrow and grin only partially suppressed.

Sherlock stood up straight, but his shoulders were slumped. His rambunctious dark hair sat at odd ends of his face- a few curls fell just in front of his eyes and one or two cupped the skin on his cheekbones. His eyes were the center stage, they were like curtains; bright and wild and clear and _magical_. No wonder why the theatre that homed them was so effortless.

"Lumos isn't the most _challenging _password, I hope you know," said the Slytherin matter-of-factly. He seemed very out of place in the Gryffindor common room with his green robes against their red furnishings. "John." he hissed, "Let's. Go."

Watson grumbled nonsense as he jogged back upstairs to fetch his jacket (he didn't believe his jumper would be enough in this cold September weather) and hurried downstairs once again. Without a single word, Sherlock took off, his cloak slashing behind him, forcing John to do his best in hopes of quickly following.

The Slytherin led the Gryffindor into a hidden passageway behind a portrait of a sophisticated feast, efficiently sending them outside and into the stale, fall, and darkened air.

* * *

**A/N: **Greetings! OkayI'mSoAwkwardSorry So I have been receiving some _wonderful_ feedback for TIOSS on Tumblr, Ao3, and . I just wanted to take a quick second to thank you all for reading and to reply to some reviews.

_Biku-sensei-sez-meow __8/20/13 . chapter 1_

_Funny! I love it. And it was pretty well written, I think. Though, I would have pegged Sherlock as a Ravenclaw. I suppose since this IS a romance, him being in Slytherin would make it more exciting. I really find it hilarious that they just stole Mycrofts cat. His CAT! Just the sort of thing I could see Sherlock actually doing. I hope you update soon. Meow!_

**Reply: **I can see John and Sherlock in both of theur typical house selections (For Sherlock Slytherin or Ravenclaw and John Gryffindor or Hufflepuff) but for the plot of this story it seemed easier if I placed them in this fashion. Meow!

_mynameispaige __9/4/13 . chapter 1_

_A lot of potential wonderfulness coming along here...Will there be more? :)_

**Reply: **Defiantly. I have up to their Second year written currently. :D


	3. First Year, Part Three

Merlin, Sherlock was fast. His strides were about three times the normal, his legs long and cunning, cutting anxious pathways through the Forbidden Forest. However, he did this all gracefully while reading off the list of ingredients he required.

John had found that he was no longer very hesitant about doing such things with Sherlock- he was now becoming quite fond of it all. As he dashed to keep up with his Slytherin friend, John's eyes darted back and forth, sucking up every image of the forest he possibly could. It was all so uncommon. Then again, compared to the Muggle world, everything was uncommon at Hogwarts.

Slender trees shot upwards into the night air, some so tall that short little twelve-year-old John Watson couldn't see the end to. Moss crept about the grounds and fallen branches acted as fences, securing the duo onto a faintly worn path. Above, the moon shone, glittering and gleaming with its neutral smile. Leaves were sprinkled on the moss and root-scented dirt, somehow allowing Sherlock to sprint over them silently while John's movements were nosily echoed. The forest was thought to be a harmful place, but really, as John was seeing it now, it was rather beautiful in its own mysteriously charismatic way.

They made their trail through the wooden grounds throughout multiple pairings of minutes until John opened his mouth. He ran his fingers through his blond hair as words slowly trickled out of his lips. "Why are you still in your uniform? You could have changed out hours ago."

"Due to the fact that Gladstone was swelling to a larger size with an accidental potion, I didn't have anytime to change."

"Did you brew an antidote?"

"Clearly."

"And you gave it to her?"

"John, please don't ask questions of the ridicule."

"Did you?"

"Obviously, now shut up. I need to find yew and knotgrass. Keep an eye out."

The blond sighed and locked his eyes downward. Although there wasn't much to focus on because it was dark and the earth was mostly covered with twigs and leaves, John tried to glare at his shoes instead of the back of Sherlock's head. He counted to ten evenly, just as his mother always told him to do when he got into fights with Harriet, and soon his stress slipped from him in invisible tendril-like forms. But momentarily they returned because John Watson spotted the largest paw print he'd ever seen. It was so enormous that (John tested this wearily) both feet fit inside with still a great deal of room left.

"Sherlock," he called apprehensively, stopping in his own tracks.

The Slytherin waved off John's annoying mumbles. "I thought I told you to shut up," Sherlock retorted dully through his teeth.

"But-"

The Slytherin stopped. "What was that?"

His view scurried out into the area just ahead. With his wand in the current Lumos state, he extended his hand out in front of him. A figure stood in the distance. A boy stared back at them… short, narrow body, dark hair, pale skin. Just as Sherlock decided the cloaked person was also a first year out and about the forest illicitly, the student dashed off, leaving the small span of light the pair possessed.

John blinked multiple times. First an enormous paw imprint, now this? "Sherlock," he practically shouted before gripping his friend forcefully by the shoulder, "who the Azkaban was that?"

Sherlock turned his head so he could see John properly. The Gryffindor wasn't necessarily shaking, but then again he wasn't exactly calm and collected as he usually was. "Don't know. I couldn't quite catch the robes."

"Robes?" John muttered inquisitively.

Sherlock's head bobbed. "He's a first year, from what I saw."

John would have responded and it would have been something referring to Sherlock's incredible talent or another question relating of such, but he couldn't possibly recall what he was going to say because he was trampled on. Not by Sherlock, no. John was attacked by the owner of the large print he noticed just moments earlier. And it hurt. Bloody hell did it hurt.

Albus once told him a story of how his father, Harry encountered, a large three-headed dog named Fluffy in _his_ first year. Albus was perched next to that window he never moved from, arms wrapped around his knees as he went through one of the many stories his father had told him. Because John didn't know much about the Harry Potter era (as some called it) as he was only just recently a Muggle, Albus went into the full story. It took him almost half the night to get through, but John stayed up as best as he could, lying on his stomach with a pillow propping him up.

Apparently Harry had realized the Sorcerer's Stone was hidden somewhere in the castle and with help from groundskeeper Hagrid, he and his two friends were able to locate it and realized their potions teacher was out to steal it. The stone had different means of protection- one being the previously mentioned three-headed dog. Albus noted that Harry used a flute to calm it after the dog reawakened after a formerly induced sleep.

…Music! That was it!

John didn't have time to celebrate the recovery of former knowledge - one of Fluffy's heads grabbed him by the waist, clenching him between a large set of teeth.

He tried whistling and then humming, but it was no use. The dog's panting and grumbly noises were too overpowering. "Sherlock!" he cried, "Music!"

It was difficult for Sherlock not to laugh at the ludicrous of it all, except his one and only friend was in the mouth of a three-headed dog and anything could be possible at the moment. Forgetting logic and trusting John's idea, Sherlock thought of his violin, which he'd left in the Flat. The clean lines, smooth wood, and tuned skins. It was all there, all he had to do was…

And he started playing, the nonverbal Accio correctly working. Sherlock sawed at the strings so as to be heard over Fluffy's grunting.

A large canine tooth charged into John's back.

When the three-headed beast finally took notice of the sound and quickly dazed off, a slobbered John still latched in its mouth.

Sherlock dropped the instrument immediately after he was sure the beast was asleep. With a firm grip on either side, he was able to push open the beast's mouth. He secured an arm around John's drooled-on waist, slid both of them out of the mouth, and placed John on the ground.

"Are- are you okay?" Sherlock stammered, wiping off slobber from John's face with his sleeve. The Slytherin very rarely spoke like this and John noticed it almost instantly. Sherlock wouldn't have exactly come out and say he was worried, but John took this to be just as much.

He choked on his words a bit, but soon they slithered their way out of his scrunched throat. "Fine… my…my back," he managed, propping himself up on an elbow unwillingly.

"We're going to Mrs. Hudson's," Sherlock stated, sliding his arms under John's nearly limp body and lifting him up to his feet. He couldn't possibly carry John all the way out of the forest. So with an arm tightly around John's body and the other clutching onto his violin, Sherlock and John made their way out of the forest to the groundkeeper's hut rather quickly. The large dog with three heads could only sleep for so long.

•••

Mrs. Hudson was very welcoming. With her bright, blue eyes and warm tea, of course the Holmes's became friends with her early on.

"Yoo-hoo!" she'd twittered upon their arrival, but her happy persona quickly vanished on seeing John's critical state. Furthermore, she and Sherlock rushed to get him on a cot to treat his wound. Once they'd removed his jumper and jacket, the injury didn't look too fatal; however, with additional scrutinizing, both Sherlock and the groundskeeper agreed it needed tending to immediately.

The benefit of having Mrs. Hudson as a family friend was that she didn't quite care if Sherlock roamed the campus past curfew. She also didn't question what had bitten John punishingly- she'd only done it to find the best treatment. Seeing as she'd known Sherlock since he was an infant, Mrs. Hudson knew all too well of his peculiar habits and only asked when necessary. She was a fantastic gamekeeper, Mycroft had once told Sherlock, although she wasn't the only one. Rubeus Hagrid still took care of most of it – Mrs. Husdon completed what he couldn't when he was busy or on a trip.

She shuffled to a cupboard where she produced a tin of Star Grass Salve and immediately returned to frantically uncomfortable John Watson. She massaged the ointment into his skin around the wound and eased his tense body.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at John's easing as she spread the last of the salve onto his back. Sherlock, in the backdrop, sat on a chair with his head in his hands, oblivious to the commotion in front of him. He shouldn't have done this- it was only John's second week and he'd already got his one and only friend bloody battered. All he needed were some yew and knotgrass, he could have gotten it alone, hiked back to the Flat, and begun his experimenting. In truth, he didn't need John's company, Sherlock longed for it like a librarian needed a decent book; both did not demand these things, however John kept him emotionally stable and when understanding Sherlock's thrashing moods he could never really survive without John now that he'd had him.

He gulped on the little saliva present in his parched mouth while his toe tapped repeatedly on the ground. If he were to continue, he was sure to beat a worn hole in that very spot. Mrs. Hudson had to instruct him to quit before he looked up and when he did, a small smile was brought to his face. Sherlock very rarely smiled, but in these past days it was all he did. Well, when John was around.

There on the cot was the Gryffindor, now sound asleep due to the lack of aching in his back. Mrs. Hudson had slipped his jumper back on when he was awake. John was positioned on his stomach so he wouldn't fuss with his spinal injury. "Thank you," Sherlock said warmly, standing up to embrace his grounds-keeping mother.

•••

It was as if every time he and Sherlock did something in the past-curfew hours John ended up in the Flat's bed. Alone, of course, but all the same. Groggily he sat up, his body propped on his elbows weakly. The room was warm with the fire on and John sank into its earnest delight.

But that was when his spine decided to announce itself once more.

"Ow," he muttered, squishing his eyes shut and gripping onto the purple sheets.

Sherlock was testing various healing potions for decency when he heard John's slight wail. "Coming!" he called, dropping in the last of the contents from his vial before turning around in a single motion.

With only a few of his elegantly long strides, he made his way to his friend's bed and sat on the edge. "Put this on your back when you get a chance," Sherlock instructed, placing a transparent flask into John's hands, "it should help heal the cut. I used some of the tentacles Mum bought me at Diagon Alley."

John stared at the potion as if it were a new species as he clasped it between two fingers and a thumb. "What is it?"

"Murtlap Essence."

While he didn't have a clue, John mumbled, "Oh."

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock peered at him.

John paused. His back was hurting, his head was a bit foggy, and what exactly had happened last night?

"My back…" he breathed, "what happened to it?"

Sherlock's infamous smile appeared then and John couldn't help but crinkling his eyes at the sight of this. Sherlock had a lovely smile, with one side perfectly still, almost like a statue, while the other curled up in partial amusement. The Slytherin's eyes only added to this action. Today they were a green tint, abandoning their normal numerous shades of blue or grey. His nose wrinkled as he smiled too. That was new. "We were in the forest and Fluffy got ahold of you. When we got to Mrs. Hudson's you fell asleep and I carried you back to the Flat."

It all came back to John then. The crushing teeth against his skin, the smells of the groundskeeper's hut, the night sky as Sherlock led him home. Somehow, through all the pain he suffered, John wouldn't have changed a thing. Because it was a rush. Because it was adrenaline. And he thrived on it so.

He returned to the original question. "I'm doing well, yeah, thanks. Right. I should go put this on my back now."

Sherlock nodded as his friend hobbled weakly off the to washroom. Over the weekend the Slytherin trained Gladstone to come on command, so when he snapped his fingers, the small black kitten scurried to where he was on John's bed and meowed happily. "Just checking," he mumbled to her, smoothening the fur on her forehead. She purred at this and then curled up by his thigh, almost _forcing_ him to pet her, which he so lovingly did.

John returned a few moments later with an empty glass flask in hand and a smile broadcasting from his lips. The stony Slytherin was resting next to the cat, his fingers sifting through her fur. John had never seen Sherlock so… so innocent, so naïve. John ruffled his hair with his free hand and walked to a spot near his bed.

Sherlock finally took notice of his Gryffindor friend at that precise moment and stopped petting the cat, his frame subconsciously sitting up straight as he crossed his arms over his chest. "I wasn't… I was examining her for bugs," the Slytherin deceivingly explained, rubbernecking at the fireplace in the distance.

"Sure," John chuckled in mock-agreement while leaning against the wall. It was one of the few time's he'd seen Sherlock flustered and embarrassed and did he just stutter? The sight as a whole was so rare, but intricately enthralling nonetheless. Well, then again _everything_ involving Sherlock was fascinating. The boy himself was a living novel waiting to be read.

•••

The Murtlap Essence ended up clearing the wound on John's back completely and he was able to return to classes the next day. Both he and Sherlock were asked occasionally by various people where they had been. Sherlock was the one to generate the response: he just didn't feel like attending classes and forced John to stay with him. The few Professors that took notice didn't punish them for this (they _were_ only first years and it _was_ only their second week) and Mrs. Hudson never spoke a word about it except for when Gladstone returned to the Flat the next morning with a letter tied to her neck. Apparently, when she was allowed outside the Room of Requirement for entertainment that Tuesday evening, Mrs. Hudson had found her and decided it was the easiest way to deliver a letter, seeing as she would soon be back in their possession. Her letter only consisted of questions about John's health in which Sherlock responded positively.

John's housemates were very inquisitive on his disappearance and made a few rude comments about Sherlock dragging him "down to the dungeons" like that again. John told them off on it and then they were back to fooling around with spells in the dorm. Everything was always fun and games with the Gryffindors, but it wasn't the adrenaline John needed. They served a prominent purpose, nonetheless, however John continued to return to Sherlock for the remainder of the year.

The pair ventured out into the forest a few more times, making certain to not cross paths with the three-headed dog once more. John was often found in the Slytherin common room alone (it was a quieter place to study, not many people occupied the space there). But then again he was also frequently found in the dungeons making potions with Sherlock or in the Flat discussing various topics with Sherlock or outside staring at the Shrieking Shack in the distance with Sherlock. To say the least, John was glued to his Slytherin friend even if he did create time to be with Greg, Mike, and Albus.

The same Gryffindor had practically forgotten about his family by the time he'd stepped back onto the Hogwarts Express to return home for the summer. He'd said goodbye to his housemates earlier and promised they'd meet up in the summer (whether Muggle or Wizarding world wasn't determined). He slid into the seat opposing Sherlock in the same compartment he'd met him in and smiled. Sherlock smiled back.

"Are you disappointed?" John asked curiously.

Sherlock scoffed in a teasing matter, stretching his legs out to the vacant space next to John just as he'd done last time… except this time their was a black cat curled up atop of his thighs, already sleeping peacefully six minutes into the ride. Sherlock had grown a few centimeters since that first trip, towering over John even more. His eyes were brighter too, his hair more curlier. In all, he was more…magical. Everything seemed to be. "Why _would_ I be?" The Slytherin retorted while flicking his wand around randomly. "I'll be back in a few months."

John didn't respond for a while, but watched as his friend levitated Hadar's cage, placed it back down beside John, and repeated his actions. "Will you write?" John finally muttered after his owl's annoyed squawking died down.

Sherlock smirked that curious smirk of his and looked the Gryffindor in the eye. "Obviously," he grinned.


	4. Second Year, Part One

_Happy Halloween! What are you going as?_

_By the way, thanks for reading. :)_

* * *

John and Sherlock had never discussed the robed figure they saw in the Forest on the night of Fluffy's attack because, well, they were _attacked_. _By a three-headed dog_. …Or at least they didn't speak of it until summer break (it was alarming, it was life threatening- obviously they had forgotten about the unnamed student until then).

Just as Sherlock had promised, they sent letters back and forth with Hadar, exhausting the poor Eurasian Eagle out of its wits.

They'd considered some theories of who this person was after Sherlock mentioned he'd wanted to see the beast again. The topic had been undusted and investigated and thought thoroughly through numerous times during the summer. They'd also chatted about how John's family was in the process of moving and his get-together with his Gryffindor friends (which ended up being held in the Muggle world, after all). Although they never had met in person, both John and Sherlock were very aware of each other's lives.

Sherlock was first on the Hogwarts Express on September 1st (he'd always hated sendoffs) so it was John who'd found him in compartment 221 all alone. He was facing the window and his grown frame stretched out over the opening and absorbed in all light possible.

"Sherlock," John said in a short exhale, dropping his case on the floor and Hadar's cage on the seat.

At the sound of the familiar voice, the Slytherin turned around. Instantly. Because that voice signaled alarms in his head and thoughts into worn paths and emotions into voyage. Because it was John Watson; his one and only friend.

"John," Sherlock breathed back, his body diving forward to collapse the blond into a hug, "you've grown." Gladstone meowed in her seat at his sight too, as if to say "I agree. We've missed you".

The Gryffindor wrapped his arms around the Slytherin's frame and he rested his chin on Sherlock's shoulder. He'd matured incredibly over the summer break himself; fingers more slender, legs spanning universes long, face narrowed (his flesh was tight against his bones). John seemed to notice the oddest things of his friend ...like the new peek of yellow in his eyes. It was never the normal "Oh, you've gotten taller" or "You lost your baby fat". No, it was always the vague aspects of his friend in which he sought.

"How are you?" he managed with a fool's smile. John was rather surprised by Sherlock's actions, but it _was_ Sherlock Holmes: the unpredictable boy.

"You know bloody well how I've been. Don't ask," he slurred while releasing John from the embrace. Sherlock relocated himself to be next to the cat.

"Yes, well, it's still nice to hear it in person. With voices and all..." John uncomfortably trailed off as he slid his case up onto the shelf and sat down. He rubbed at the back of his neck. How could things go from so friendly to _this_ in under a minute? Oh yes, Sherlock, right...

He sighed, looked at the human oddly contorted in front of him, shook his head, and sighed again. It was a reoccurring cycle. Sherlock's habits never ended.

The brunet glared at him.

John chuckled.

"Mycroft was an arse, Gladstone missed you, and I have had successful experiments. Burned down the curtains, but Mummy never saw," Sherlock said matter-of-factly as he absentmindedly stroked the cat to his right. She purred and flipped over so he was petting her stomach. Even without seeing her previous owner for a year, Gladstone still resembled Mycroft in witty peculiarities.

"I don't think it was the cat that missed me, Sherlock," stated John as his head tilted to the side and his sky-like eyes frothed. He smiled. He snickered. He grinned. Merlin, how he'd missed his mysterious friend.

Sherlock cursed and moved his feet from beside John to onto the Gryffindor's lap, annoying him furthermore. His gaze grew tired of viewing John's cheerful display. He looked out the window, then, not wanting to see bright and sunny Watson any longer. "Fine, it wasn't the bloody cat," he admitted, crossing his arms and digging his toes into John's stomach.

"Ah, the Slytherin has a soft side."

Sneaking a glance at John out of curiosity, Sherlock responded with a snort, "Is that a problem?"

John chuckled, sunk into the seat, and patted Sherlock's foot carelessly. "I'm actually rather pleased," the Gryffindor said as he flashed a grin at the cold Slytherin. Sherlock grimaced and continued staring out the window. Grassy hills rolled by the train's windows and the thick humidity from rain seeped into the compartments.

"I'm not stupid, John," sighed the brunet, "you really should remember that. It's rather obvious."

"Trust me, I won't forget it."

•••

John strolled to the cobblestone door, muttered the selected potion name of the week, and stepped into the Slytherin common room. McGonagall had told both he and Sherlock that if they weren't causing trouble, they could loiter in opposing Common Rooms whenever they pleased… Though it didn't really matter because Sherlock would go where and when he wanted because he was Sherlock Bloody Holmes and rules didn't matter.

John couldn't remember where Sherlock had said he'd be (was he settled in the Flat? Great Hall?) so he decided on his friend's Common Room because it was quieter than the Gryffindor's. It didn't really matter if Sherlock was there or not, did it?

Luckily, knowing Sherlock practically inside and out, John was in the correct spot because sprawled out in front of the fireplace was the rambunctious Slytherin. His hair was a mess, eyes dark and hollow, but nonetheless was it John's friend.

"Don't you have Charms right now?" asked John as he sat in an armchair.

Sherlock didn't respond, he also didn't move. The cantankerous git just sat there with his fingers pressed up against his lips. His eyes were open, so apparently the Mind Palace that he'd occasionally mentioned wasn't _that_ busy. The fire crackled light against his practically translucent skin as he sorted through his thoughts. John decided then that there was no use in attempting conversation.

So he sat and did his Potions paper.

Thirty minutes later Sherlock Holmes opened his mouth.

"Fire helps me think." Sherlock stretched out and relaxed his back. "Should I write that?" he asked upon seeing John fussing with his parchment.

The Gryffindor tossed down his paper. "Have at it."

"When is this due?"

"Friday."

"I'll have it done by Thursday."

"And it won't be like my Astronomy paper last year?"

"Have I written you a poor Potions paper to date?"

"No."

"Exactly."

John sighed. Sherlock could never just be _simple_, could he?

John doubted he could.

"I was thinking about the night of the three-headed beast."

Before John could interject whatever the hell he wanted to, Sherlock continued. "I think the figure we saw sent the dog to attack us. Why would Fluffy attack if he weren't protecting anything? It's illogical."

"Why are you fussing over the student so much? They could have been just strolling about like you and me."

"Not like me. I'm not normal. No one would do that."

"Maybe they would."

Sherlock gulped. "They wouldn't. And I'm almost positive that they sent the beast on us once they noticed our presence."

"Whatever you say, _detective_."

•••

The first letter dropped against Sherlock's plate on the initial Monday in November with a clanking "thud". It was addressed in thick purple ink and the letters curved with significant remarks. It read:

**_Dearest Sherlock,_**

**_I didn't have the time to console you on this earlier in the summer and it seemingly slipped my mind since your departure, but Mycroft has informed us about your whereabouts with a Mudblood. Knowing our high standards of your well being, we will not permit you to be about this boy any further. Mycroft will notify and update us on your progress, but from here on out you will not loiter around John H. Watson. _**

**_And if you chose to ignore this note your consequences will be chosen. _**

**_Behave nicely,_**

**_Mummy and Father_**

He scrutinized the letter for a few moments before knowing it all.

Mrs. Holmes only wrote in black ink and from the way the parchment was printed it seemed as if it was from her inconvenience. Her scrawl wasn't that round and bubbly- it was narrower –and she only used parchment bought specifically in a little shop down on Diagon Alley.

The letter was obviously forged. His parents did not write it. But _who_ had forged it?

The Slytherin sighed and slipped it into his borrowed (from the restricted section) book, heading off to the Flat since John was nowhere in sight.

•••

Sherlock didn't particularly care for the letter's incentive at first. He continued studying (or attempting to) with John, brewing and causing explosions of potions with John, and sneaking out onto the Hogwarts grounds past curfew with John. All his time, when not relished alone, was with his Gryffindor friend. And he enjoyed it.

Sherlock was even around John so often as to where he began talking to the Watson's housemates and partook in deducing their lifestyles the first instant of meeting them. It hadn't been excruciating, but the three boys did groan when things like "You still sleep with a stuffed animal" shot out of his mouth and slapped them in the face. They got over it; nonetheless being the Gryffindors they were, and challenged Sherlock to a Wizard Chess match, which he easily won.

He wasn't really worried until a second letter was dropped onto his books precisely two weeks later. He didn't dare read it in front of John so he slid it into his book and continued working on his Herbology parchment. Only when he was alone in the Flat later that night did he open it. It consisted of the following:

**_Dearest Sherlock,  
Mycroft has informed us of your invariable occurrences with second year Gryffindor John Watson. Your father wishes for me to punish you immediately, for you have seemingly abandoned our rules, but I have contracted you a single, utmost final chance._**

**_ If you do not halt your relations with John at once, you will be punished._**

**_ Behave yourself,_**

**_ Mummy and Father_**

After he'd skimmed through it three or four times, he got to work.

Sherlock rushed to his desk in the corner of the room and pushed aside his cauldron and various ingredients. He attempted the Specialis Revelio charm but nothing appeared so he then tried the old and boring way of finger printing. With what he had near him, Sherloc did as best as he could to find a print, smudge, hair, dust particle… anything that could contain DNA, but it was no use. The person who'd sent it was clever, oh how clever.

Sometimes, magic wasn't a blessing.

Because sometimes, problems could be solved easily without layers upon layers of spells and charms locked on something.

Maybe Muggles were good. In their own way, of course.

Sherlock slumped in his set (or as best he could because it _was_ only a stool) and pushed the letter aside. With a quick glance at the clock on the wall, the Slytherin noticed the time.

Was it physically possible to lack sleep for over one hundred and twenty hours on a Wideye potion?

Well, he'd find out soon enough.

•••

Because he wasn't quite certain _who_ was sending the series of ill-fated letters, Sherlock refrained from wandering alongside John too often. Although he didn't do this for the said-to-come consequences, the Slytherin teen did not wish to put his friend in danger.

John didn't take this very well. Believing that Sherlock was ignoring him for some peculiar reason, John did the same. _Again_. He, being left out on a great deal of information as per the usual, did not realize the recent lack of his best friend was a _precaution_ and not just one of his "pissful moods". And because of this absence of information, John Watson slowly but surely began to loathe his best friend.

It had all started in the end of November. He'd been contently sitting in the Flat alone with Gladstone when the Slytherin had sauntered his usual saunter through the magically appearing doors, and John, who was currently reading the Daily Prophet, peered at Sherlock from the rim of his paper. He glared at his "friend" before resuming his activity with his head hidden behind the daily. Sherlock left quickly - he wasn't too fond of John when he was like this.

The second occurrence was when he and his three Gryffindor housemates were studying in the library. As rare of an happening as it was, the quartet of students was revising and examining and scrutinizing as best they could - their Defense Against the Dark Arts test was promised to be challenging. When Sherlock had seated himself in a chair near the Gryffindors's table, noticed their presence, (and made a note for himself of how much John had grown in the past weeks) his jaw locked and in one of those swift movements of his and he was gone. The Slytherin common room would have to do.

Sherlock was making a point not to be seen by Watson as best he could, but being placed in the same classes was out of his hands. He would take all the secret passageways he had prior knowledge of, purposely step into a class late, or skip them all completely just to rid of the dark looks John shot him. What had he done?

John's mood worsened by the days. The more time he spent away from the Slytherin, the more he despised of him. And the more it happened, the more he couldn't remember _why_ he detested his best friend. People were supposed to make up after a certain amount of time, yeah? Wasn't that the _normal_ thing to do? After trying to remember the real cause of it all, John decided. If he was going to mope when not around Sherlock, why couldn't he just be with Sherlock again? Was it all _that easy_?

Knowing Sherlock inside and out, John understood exactly where the location of his friend was on Sunday mornings: Experimenting in the Flat. The Gryffindor strode to this location while he built up his confidence. John went through the list in his head: Apologize for whatever he'd done (although he didn't know what he did to deserve this) (The whole situation was confusing to him) (Was he under a Confusing Concoction?), plead that he wouldn't do it again, and promise to help with any future explosions. It was his standard plan for apologies and generally it worked. So as he stepped through the magically appearing doors, John relaxed and squeezed his fist three times over. It was going to be okay. Everything always ended up like that. With a deep breath, he set his eyes on Sherlock. There was no turning back now.

John coughed a light and hollow breath to acknowledge his presence. Sherlock turned around instantly. He always moved in such sudden actions and somehow made them as swift as physically possible. There was not serenity within the teen, but only cutting elegance. "I asked you to get me my quill an hour ago… where is it?" The boy growled, shuffling his long snowy fingers through his forest of curls.

John bit the inside of his mouth. He gritted his teeth. He even tapped his toe- anything to suppress his frustration. And only then did he speak, choosing to ignore Sherlock's pompous statement. "I'm sorry," he said, "for whatever I did to force you to ignore me. Whatever it was, I didn't mean it and I was probably being a-"

But Sherlock cut him off.

"You did nothing."

As if John wasn't confused before. "Then why have you been ignoring me?" he asked with a head tilted to the side and eyes narrowed at the boy directly in front of him. What the bloody hell was going on? It wouldn't have surprised John any much more if a dragon smashed the Room of Requirement's windows in and ate both of them. Actually, for the wizarding world, that seemed fairly normal. This... this stubborn and cold and aggravating Slytherin wasn't _normal_. He was a robot. He. Wasn't._ Real_.

Sherlock swallowed once before talking. "There hasn't been anything to discuss," he said while he pocketed loose fists.

John was baffled. "Blimey!" He exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air, "there doesn't have to be a topic of conversation, Sherlock! All you have to do is talk... and even that isn't _really _required. We're friends. And friends like to be around each other." He paused for a few moments as if to give time for his words to seep into Sherlock's skin and dampen that metal heart of his. His next words came without a thought. "Are we even friends still?" he asked in a whisper, hands clutched at his side and body leaning intently forward.

And somehow, he'd already known Sherlock's answer before it trickled off his lips like cold water clogging in a drain.

"No."

It was all John needed. Amid a single and utmost final glance at the sodding bastard in front of him, John strode out of the Flat in mere seconds and left his formerly referred "friend" alone in the Come and Go Room with a stolen cat and a miserable attempt at a potion.


End file.
